


Tell Him, Tell Him, Tell Him, Tell Him! (Right Now)

by StrongerThanAnySword



Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: F/M, Fighting, Nervousness, Sparring, Surprises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 12:04:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5539316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrongerThanAnySword/pseuds/StrongerThanAnySword
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bog and Marianne rarely fight, preferring to spar, but what happens when their sparring is interrupted?  What's going on with Marianne?  What isn't she telling Bog???</p><p>My Secret Santa offering for party-with-books!  :D</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell Him, Tell Him, Tell Him, Tell Him! (Right Now)

Neither of them ever, ever called for hold.  The spar ended when one or both was physically too tired to raise sword or staff in defense; that was how it always was, one of the only rules--all of them unspoken--about their almost daily sparring sessions.  A joke would be cracked, or a lousy pass made, and laughter would break out between the two monarchs as they flopped to the floor next to each other, sides pressed together as their muscles burned in a way that only one other of their pastimes elicited.  Neither of them ever, ever called for hold.  It simply wasn't done.

 

Bog could tell she was in a bad way, though.  Twice he'd caught her with moves she should have deflected with a pleasant sneer, her barking laughter trailing lightly through the air.  The first time, he'd hit her squarely in the mouth with the butt of his staff and had choked down apologies under her glare as she wiped her split lip with the back of her hand; she'd launched into another assault.  The second time, however, he'd damn near smashed the joint of her wing, only managing to wrench his blow to the left and clip her shoulder instead.  Now, a few minutes later, she was beginning to appear a faint shade of green...

 

"Stop."  Bog hovered midair for a moment, ceasing the chase around the chandeliers they had been engaged in.  Marianne gave him an odd look and advanced as if to attack, and Bog let the staff fall to his side, parallel to the floor, as his other hand came up.  "Marianne, please.  Hold."  He buzzed down to the ground and lighted gently on the throne's dais; she landed with somewhat less than her usual grace a few feet away and on the court's floor, glaring just under and to the left of his right shoulder, avoiding his gaze.

 

"Marianne?"  Bog quickly made his way down the steps and stood in front of her, gnawing his lower lip and palming his staff as he did when he was anxious.  She was still avoiding his eyes, her crystallized-honey eyes now very interested in the flagstone floor.  "Marianne, are you all right?"  He risked letting go of the staff, leaning it up against the stairs, and gently took her hands in his, never minding that her sword was still clutched in the one.

 

"I'm  **fine** ," Marianne gritted out, pulling away and back slightly.  Bog took a deep breath and moved forward to accommodate.  He had learned that she did not shy away from his touch, not ever, and the lesson had been long in sticking.  Even longer in learning, however, was that she  _craved_ his touch, that it calmed and soothed her at almost all times--unless she told him to let her alone, in which case, watch out.  It niggled at his mind that **she** , gorgeous and courageous and wonderful Marianne, by no means perfect but perfect for him, was under the impression that she did not deserve his touch in almost an identical fashion to the way he saw himself, but the thought was always fleeting, too painful to stay.  He was still in awe whenever she sank into his arms or melted against his chest or voluntarily came to  _him,_ arms wrapping around his waist or lips pressing to his temple, his brow, his mouth...

 

Today, it seemed, was not to be one of those days.

 

"There's no reason to stop the spar," she said accusingly, wary of the silence and shooting a look up at him.  Her beautiful eyes danced with anger and something else, something he had only seen once or twice in her eyes: fear.  It slunk behind the rich browns, trying to hide like a shadow in the twilight, but he knew her too well and he saw it there.

 

"Yeh seem...off," Bog murmured, one hand shifting to hold both of hers while he cupped the smooth, delicate skin of her cheek with the other.  "I dem near crippled yeh wi' tha' las' blow, an'..."  He grumbled and swallowed, trying to reign in his thickening accent.  "I jes'...I jes' wan' tae know yer all righ', Marianne."  He ducked to peer directly into her eyes, his own blue ones begging.  "Please."

 

Marianne sucked in a breath but she closed her eyes, leaning into Bog's hand, and his heart throbbed in a loving ache.  When she blew the breath out, it was like watching a thunderstorm diffuse right in front of him; her shoulders slumped and she looked down and away, finally sheathing her sword and flopping down to sit on the ground.  He barely caught her murmured "Okay" but was elated that he did, sitting down cross-legged and across from her, giving his full attention to his wife, his heart.

 

She was silent for a few long minutes, staring at the ground and picking absentmindedly at her boot, obviously searching for a way to start; she then swallowed hard, took a breath, and slowly looked up, meeting Bog's gaze.

 

"Bog, I..."  Her arms came to curl around her midsection in a hug, a protective embraced as she hunched forward and drew her knees to her chest.  "I don't know how to say this, so I'm just going to...to come out and do it.  I think...I think I might be pregnant."

 

Bog's brain stopped working about the same time that his mouth fell open.

 

Marianne rushed on.  "I'm going to see the healers today and see if they can make sense of it, I don't know.  I didn't even know we could...I didn't know that it was possible, I didn't know, and...I'm sorry, I know we've talked about--."  She trailed off helplessly, her eyes moistening suspiciously.  "Bog, I'm scared, and I don't know what to do, and I'm so sorry I didn't tell you only I...I wasn't sure how you..."

 

Something snapped into place and Bog felt his eyes growing wet.  " _Marianne,_ " he breathed, scooting closer and reaching for her, spreading his long legs so he could tug her close to his chest.  "Marianne, how...how long have you...?"  He couldn't keep a hold on his sentences, he didn't know how to speak any more, all that he knew was that Marianne,  **his**   **Marianne** , was looking scared and small and she was  _ **pregnant**_.  With his child.  His child!  He thought his heart may have stopped in his chest; he didn't feel it beating, but there was a roaring in his ears like a tornado going through the Forest, and he could hardly breathe...

 

"About three weeks," she answered miserably, flopping her face forward onto her arms, pillowed on her knees, jumping slightly at how close he was when he croaked and wrapped arms around her at last.  "I...I didn't know how to tell you," she murmured uncertainly as he pressed her to his chest, closing his eyes at the warm weight of her, wrapping his every limb around her in a protective cocoon.  "I know...I know we've talked about it and wished for it, but  _I wish_ is so much  **different**  when you can't have it, and I didn't know if...if it happening for real would be something you wanted..."

 

"Something I wanted!"  Bog pulled back enough to look down and tip her face up to meet his, and his voice was filled with a fierce bite, his face the portrait of a snarl in his fierce need for her to understand his feelings; it was a sign of how well she knew him that she didn't flinch away at that face but only waited, anxiety clear on her face.  "Something  _I-_!  What about you?!  How are you?  How are you doing?  Are you ill?  Are you all right?  Are you all right with  _this?_  Marianne, I have wanted a child with you since the moment I  **met** you and to have this wish granted--"

 

"The  _moment_ you met me?" Marianne interrupted, the beginnings of a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth.  

 

"Hush!"  Bog's thin facial carapace was warming and he strove to ignore the heat pouring off of it as well as her clever fingers poking him in the ribs and making him squirm.  "To have this wish granted--"

 

"The  ** _moment_** you met me?" Marianne repeated in apparent delight, her eyes dancing again but with joy and amusement this time, the lines of her body finally beginning to relax.  "I mean I understand the sentiment, but the  ** _moment_** that you...?"

 

"Hush!" Bog protested, face pinking now, but no real force could ever be in his voice when Marianne was finally looking like she wasn't about to run or cry or push him away, when Marianne was looking up at him with that familiar teasing love, and he allowed himself to grin back at her, giving up on scolding.  "I find screaming Fae bursting through skylights at well past midnight to be bewitching, and alluring, and--"

 

"Shut up."  Marianne shoved his shoulder lightly, laughing.  "You do not.  Did not.  Now may be another story."  She waggled her eyebrows at him and giggled when he barked out a laugh, only to relax into his arms with a huffing sigh immediately afterward.  "...But you're not...you're not upset?  That I waited?  Or that it's happening, most likely?  Or that a million other things--"

 

Bog gently laid a finger on her lips, stilling her nervous babbling, and smiled reassuringly, trying to pour that reassurance out of his very soul and into hers via their eyes.  "The only thing I am upset about," he murmured, leaning forward and placing a firm kiss on his queen's forehead, "is that you worried so long in silence and solitude before telling me.  I am..." his voice caught as the breath left him at the thought of their  ** _child,_** growing between them, and he sucked in another lungful.  "I am  _overjoyed_ at this news, my love.  I can barely breathe for happiness."  He laughed and jerked his finger away as she snapped her teeth at it, grinning up at him with her trademark proud fierceness.

 

" _Good."_  Marianne pushed forward, causing Bog to overbalance and fall onto his back, wings and arms splayed awkwardly as she crawled into his lap, leaning forward to press him against the cold flagstones, eyes a little wet again above her smile.  She settled her chin on his chest and wrapped her limbs around his torso in a squishing hug.  She wiggled forward to kiss him, eyes closing with a pleased hum, and he couldn't hold his own back as his eyes slid shut, opening his mouth to her as one hand wove into the hair at the back of her head, pulling her closer.

 

"Good," he agreed, murmuring against her lips, kissing her again.  He smirked.  "You're going to grow quite large...we're going to have to lay off the sparring for a while..."

 

" _I am not!"_ she protested, pulling away and up and smacking his shoulder.  "And even if I am, we aren't not going to spar for nine months!"  She crossed her arms and glared down at him, the picture of loveliness and a portrait of anger.  "I'm not suddenly made of glass, Bog!"

 

He had to laugh at her sudden shift, placing one hand on her knee.  "Well, my love, perhaps not, but we  _will_ have to tone it down at least a little."  He grinned at her.  "I cannot always be slowing my blows for you, and I would hate to see you be sick on your sword..."

 

Marianne snorted.  "Rich, coming from the man who thinks the sounds of death and fury are  _alluring_ and  _bewitching_ and Winds know what else!"

 

Bog's grin only widened.  Instead of retorting, he dropped his gaze to her belly--not at all changed, no show at all yet--and placed his hands on her rear to scoot her closer to his face.  "I love you," he murmured, speaking now to both of them, leaning forward to place a kiss over the place where Marianne's belly button was.  "I love you both with all of my heart and I will never, ever stop."

 

"I love you too."  Marianne's hands palmed her belly and the face of her king, a softer kind of smile growing on her face.  "Even if you do have an odd taste in women."

 

"My taste in women is  _impeccable,_ " Bog retorted, smiling and beginning to trace gentle designs on Marianne's belly with the tips of his claws, making her shiver.  "Between my taste in and treatment of women, your taste in weapons, and your sister's taste in clothing, our child will be the best of the creatures to ever roam this earth."

 

"And if it's a girl?" Marianne challenged, chin rising slightly as she smirked down at Bog.  He laughed again and pressed another kiss to her stomach.

 

" _If she is anything like her mother, she will outshine even the sun."_

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Strange Magic Secret Santa project! :D Merry Christmas, party-with-books! And a big thanks to goldwerewolf for putting it all together! :)


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